Soulless Days
by Dex1
Summary: One of Sam's visions leads the boys to a startling discovery...John may be dead, but is he really gone?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing Supernatural. Just so you know.

**Author's Note:** This is for Vicki, who wanted some pitiful Dean angst among ZombieJohn. And I promise, both of those are to come. But for now, an introduction to what will be...well, hopefully, a worthwhile story.

* * *

Everything was so…jumbled. It didn't make any sense. None of it did. There were memories he couldn't remember making. A life he couldn't remember living. People he couldn't remember knowing. Loving.

'_Dad? Dad? Where are you going? Dad?!'_

Dean? No. No, it was the voice of a child. And Dean is a man. Isn't he?

'_I can help, you know. I can handle it. I'll do whatever you want, whatever you say.'_

Dean, he knows, he's sure. Dean. Mommy's little helper. Daddy's little soldier.

But who is this Dean? A son without a face, only a voice echoing in his mind. And falling further into the din with each passing moment.

'_Daddy?'_

And Sammy.

'_There's something in my closet. Dad, I'm scared.'_

Scared. _Me too._ Because of Sam. Because of Dean. Scared. _Of_ Sam. _For _Dean.

'_Don't you let it kill me!'_

Scared of himself, what he had become and, oh God, what he turned his children into, children he doesn't even know. Loners. Killers. Didn't he know that sad little boys grew into bitter men? Didn't he know he was ruining them?

No. Saving them.

Each voice, the same but different. Little boys and full grown men. His sons. His family. Each one getting softer and softer. Disappearing. Those familiar notes dissipating like smoke in the wind, blown out the window while the fire continued to burn away the ceiling.

'_I'm proud of you.'_

For what?

For doing well. For doing good. For doing all that he couldn't.

This is his own voice. He knows it, recognizes it if only because he can somehow _feel_ it rising from his chest, up his throat, out too clenched teeth.

'_Take care of Sammy,'_ he says. And he knows what it means, knows, _remembers_ – the last thing he may ever remember – what he didn't say.

_Before he takes care of you._

_00000 _

The room was spinning, this he could tell even through the veil of heavily lidded eyes. He could feel it spinning wildly out of control. And it made him sick.

His head pounded, limbs throbbed. Dry mouth, dry throat, but skin wet, slicked with sweat. A fever? God, was it _hot_.

Something touched his forehead, a rag or sponge, and cool liquid spilled down either side of his face. Then skin, soft, fleshy fingertips, took to wiping away the moisture above his brow, keeping it from dripping into his still closed eyes.

Closed, because he couldn't open them. Couldn't remember how.

"There, there," he heard, a woman's voice cutting through the hum and buzz of the room. Of his own ears. "Sleep now, mon petit." Her tone was ragged but soothing, and it possessed a sort of cadence, a lyrically commanding quality that he had no choice but to comply with.

So he slept.

* * *

Four months. It had been four months since they last searched for the demon. Four months since asking Ash for help, and, of course, getting nothing from him. Four months since they set their father's shrouded body atop a tier and burned him into ash and bits of bone. It had been four _long_ months.

And for the most part, things had been relatively quiet, uneventful. A vengeful spirit here, a vampire cult there, nothing too big. And only the one vision. Well, _set_ of visions. One more psychic wonder found. Two, if you include his evil twin.

They told Ellen about that, Ellen and Jo and Ash. And they were supposed to help find more. More _children like him_. But they hadn't talked to anyone at the roadhouse since leaving six weeks ago. And they hadn't really planned on calling them up any time soon either. After all, neither of them knew how much time might be needed before being able to move on, forgive and forget the accusations hurled that day, about their father. About Jo's.

So they had no leads on the demon, no leads on other people connected to it – and how he hated to think of himself as being connected to it – save for his visions, which just wouldn't come. Not that he really minded that part.

"Sam?" he hears his brother say, that tight, pained lilt to his voice that had become so common lately. "Sammy, hey, I'm talking to you man."

"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat and realizing that Dean's probably been talking to him for quite some time, chatting away while he just let himself drift further into thought. "Sorry, what?"

Dean eyes him suspiciously, a gaze he's perfected over the years but seems to be using much more often these days. "I said," he drawls out, "that we should get going if we want to be there by morning. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head and looks away from his brother's piercing stare. "Nothing," he says once more, this time with more confidence. He flings some cash down on the table, grabs the folded, earmarked newspaper, and scoots out of the booth. "Let's go."

And then, not two steps out the diner's door, Dean lumbering somberly on behind him…bam! That all too familiar strangle hold bears down on his brain. And he falls, crumples to the ground, doesn't even feel it, doesn't even notice, when Dean trips over him, sending them both to the rain splattered concrete.

Sometimes he wonders why it hurts so much, whose idea it was to give him these vision amidst so much pain. Because if it weren't for the blinding agony, he could likely see so much more of what's being shown. If he didn't have that pulsating throb curling and fraying the very edges of his conscious mind, he'd probably be able to make so much more out of them, glean so much more from them.

But instead he gets mere flashes laced with pain. Flashes that make no sense. Flashes that seem important, seem real, but can't be. Because these flashes show a man he'd recognize anywhere, a man who even in this dreamlike state, he can smell – sweat and leather and smoke. A man whose steady breaths he'd easily be able to discern, even among a crowd of others.

A man who's been dead for four months.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

* * *

He thought about it everyday. Every day for four months those words passed through his consciousness. His father's last words, whispered in his ear, breath still condensing on his cheek. It was a secret worth dying for, one he'd never share. Not with anyone. Certainly not with Sammy.

He could never know, Dean had sworn to himself that he never would. Those words might still reverberate in his ears, but the secret died with Dad.

"Dad's dead, Sam," he says, finally. It's the first sound either of them makes after long minutes of silence, nothing but cars rushing by on the freeway outside the parking lot. "He's dead."

Sam sits, still as he can, every movement sending stabs of pain just behind his eyes. He hunches over in the passenger seat, long legs dangling out the open door, and mutters, "I know." Then, gingerly turning round to face his brother, he adds, "But I saw him."

And he had. In a vision. One of those all out brain busting psycho psychic crap visions. The kind that somehow always managed to be right. He told Dean all about it, details spilling from his mouth before he even had time to realize himself what he had seen.

_Dad. He was there. But I don't know where. He was there, with some woman, and…and…_He had to squint against the pain as Dean carefully lowered him to the car's seat. He had to squint against the pain as he _remembered_. _He killed someone. Stabbed him, a man. There was blood everywhere._ And then there was silence.

"You didn't see him, Sam. You couldn't have. He's dead."

"I know, Dean. I _know_. But…"

"But nothing!" The sheer volume of his voice surprises even him, and he sees Sam wince. He closes his eyes, one long blink, and tries to take a deep breath. But his lungs wobble as the air enters, choking him from the chest up instead of the throat down. He can hear it too, how ragged and hiccup-like it sounds, and tries to cover by talking. But his words, "We saw him die. We burned his body," come out like tear-filled whispers.

The leather of the seat pulls and squeaks as Sam swings his legs in and leans back. "I don't know," he breathes out. "It doesn't make sense, but…that's what it was. Dad."

"Then your vision's wrong."

His head shoots up off the headrest, eyes set in an angry glare. "Right, because that's usually the case."

"Sam," he tries, but finds there are no more words to follow.

"Dean," Sam counters.

"Sam, it's not…it can't…" He clamps his mouth shut and starts up the car, revs the engine, motions for his brother to shut his door. "Where to then?" he asks, hoping his little brother has some answers.

* * *

"How are you feeling, John?" Her voice is soft and slow, and he thinks he likes it, thinks it reminds him of someone or something. But he can't remember who or what. He thinks the oddly accented words, the deep sweet drawl would make him smile, if he could smile. But he doesn't seem to know how.

She does though, and when he offers a nod of his head in response to her question, she grins, wide and toothy, down at him. "Bon. We have a big day today, John," she says, flitting away and into the big closet. "Your first day up and about." A pair of pants and a large T-shirt land on the bed by his feet, quickly followed by a flung pair of sneakers. "Well, go on then," she says, still smiling. "Get yourself dressed. It's a big day, John. Grand jour."

He moves slowly at first, his brain working overtime, trying to figure out how this shirt might slip over his head, how he can manage to put his arms through its sleeves. The pants are even more difficult. Sliding his legs through them seems so familiar, but awkward, cumbersome. It takes him nearly five minutes to figure out to push the button through that hole, pull the zipper up.

Then he just sits, shoulders slouched, hands gripping the edge of the bed. He sits and stairs at his bare feet. They're not right. They…need something. He wiggles his toes, scrunches the carpet up in between them.

"John," he hears from behind, and can't help but wonder just what that word, _John_, means. It sounds _so_ familiar. "Put on your socks."

_Socks, of course._ He reaches to his left where they sit on the bed, grabs them without looking, slips them on.

"And your shoes," she says, voice laden with impatience. "Put them on." He does. "Now tie them," she says slowly before adding under her breath, "Jamais, jamais encore, ramene a la vie."

* * *

"Fine," he says sharply, lurching the car into park. "We're here."

"You don't have to be such an ass about it Dean. I mean, where were we supposed to go?"

Dean looks out the window, squints against the sun. The roadhouse. Of all the places Sam could have picked for them to go for help. They could have just pulled over at some hotel somewhere and picked through the vision some more, found some detail that had slipped his mind before, been over looked. They could have done this on their own.

Or Missouri. She's a psychic for God's sake. They could have gone to her.

But no, Sam had to insist on this…place.

"I don't think they'll be too happy to see us," he says almost to himself, eyes still pointed out at the dirt lot.

"I think they'll be even less happy to hear what we have to say."

Dean turns and flashes a glance Sam's way. "Yeah."

"But," Sam offers, his voice not nearly as raw as it had been some hours before, "they know. I mean, about…me, and these visions and all. And besides, maybe Ash found something and, you know, just hasn't told us yet. For some reason." He looks over at his brother and takes in the cock of the head, pursed lips, raised brows. "Yeah," he says, ducking his head, "that might be pushing it."

Dean stares at him for a moment. Sam. His little brother. Even hunched over like that he's bigger than him. But with the same crazy mop of hair and bashful sort of posture he had at six, Dean can't help but see him as just that, his _little_ brother. Sweet, innocent Sammy, whom he'd always watched out for, always protected. No matter what. And that would never stop. Never. He'd always be there to keep Sam safe.

Even from himself.

"C'mon," he says taking in a deep breath and giving Sam's knee a quick pat. "Let's go greet the adoring fans."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING. So sad for me.

Author's Note: Well, it ain't great, but it's an update. Enjoy!

* * *

"What do you mean you didn't check?" she spits angrily into the phone. "I was under the impression you've been doing this for a while, Bobby. What the hell kind of amateur sneaks a body out of the hospital without even making sure it's the right damn body?!" Ellen huffs loudly as she slams the phone back down into its cradle. Then she is quiet, and still, matching the thick silence of those around her.

It's not as though she really gave John Winchester much thought over the years. An occasional curse here, a random plea thrown into the wind there. Catching a glimpse of dark brown waves peeking over an upturned leather collar would cause her to start. Every time. And she wasn't sure if it was excitement, because there was a time when he had been such good friend. Or anticipation, because she'd waited years for him to walk through that door and tell her what _really_ happened to her Will. Or fear, because she truly had no idea what _she_ might do upon seeing the man responsible for her husband's death. But it didn't matter. Whoever it was would eventually turn around, and it would never be him.

And then she'd met his boys, found out he was dead, and realized there was no comfort in it at all. She'd never wanted anything to happen to John. All she'd wanted was an apology, and an explanation. And maybe a free punch. Breaking his nose would have been enough to avenge the wrong she was certain he already terribly regretted.

But death was too much.

And now here they were, she and her daughter along with _his_ sons, all discussing the fact that he may not be dead after all. And for a moment she feels that old heart stopping emotion – excitement, anticipation, fear, and the ever-present sorrow that comes from losing not just a husband, but a dear friend as well – rise up in her again.

And it makes her want to puke.

"So," Dean starts, long and drawn out, "We didn't really burn Dad?"

She looks over at him for a moment and sees a flash of John in his eyes. It's that 'little boy lost' glint, buried deep within the all too cocky face. "Did you look at him?" she asks softly, hoping, for his sake more than anyone else's, that the answer is no. Because that might give them some hope. And because no child, no matter how old, should ever have to look into his dead parent's face.

He and Sam exchange a glance and she can see the communication taking place between them with just a quick meeting of the eyes. She can see, before Dean turns her way and shakes head even, that the answer is no.

"Well then," she says, unsure of where to go from there.

"But we saw him die," Sam mumbles over his barely touched beer. "We were there. We saw…"

"What did you see?" she asks, realizing for the first time that they had never actually told her how he'd died. They'd never told her that they were there, watching it happen.

Sam's eyes lock onto hers, deep, dark, sad eyes. For a moment she becomes so lost in them that she almost doesn't hear Dean say, "His heart stopped." She breaks away from Sam's gaze, turns to Dean, takes in his sharp features, the strong set to his jaw. His voice is controlled and purposely void of emotion when he continues. "At the hospital, his heart stopped and they tried to get it going again. And they couldn't. And he died." The words are capped off by an indignant snort and a long pull on his beer.

"So if he was dead," Sam begins quietly with furrowed brow, as though he's still working his way through all of this himself, "and now he's…not, then…what? Necromancy?" No one responds, not even when he looks around the room meeting the gaze of each person individually. "Well, let's just say that we did burn the wrong body. Bobby's not stupid. I mean, even if he didn't _check_ it, he must have pulled the one marked as our dad. Right?"

Dean leans a little further into the bar and says, rather disbelieving, "So someone switched them so that they could reanimate his corpse? I don't know, Sam."

"It's not like we haven't seen weirder."

"That's not the point."

"I'm just saying it's possible."

"It's not…possible, Sam. It's _Dad_."

Sam's head drops, unable to look his brother in the eye. "It's a _possible_ explanation," he says, the words aimed at his lap. "There has to be some sort of explanation for this. And it's one."

Ellen takes a deep breath and prepares to do what she knew she would do all along, ever since first meeting these boys, _John's_ boys, months ago. She offers them her help, her resident genius, the spare room in her home. She'd offer them the moon and the stars if she thought that would help.

Because they were Winchesters. And she'd never met a Winchester that she hadn't felt compelled to give the world to, no matter how much of hers might get lost in the process.

* * *

Going through the motions, that's what it was. And it wasn't tough, not really. She'd laid it all out for him, where to go, when, who to look for, _what_ to watch out for.

Her instructions were simple. Find the man in the photo, follow him home. Kill him. Stab him as many times as it takes. Make it messy. Not too quick, drag it out.

She didn't say why. And he didn't ask, didn't care enough to. Didn't even _think_ to. He just did as he was told.

And still, standing there in that blood spattered room, knife in hand – _keep the knife, John, don't leave it behind_ – an unknown man still choking and gurgling at his feet, slight sparks jumping off his fingertips, he just plain doesn't care. Doesn't, he guesses, even know how.

* * *

How long had it been since he'd slept? Since either of them had? He couldn't remember. Probably not too long, it just seemed that way. It couldn't have been that long really because no matter how tired his mind felt, his body simply would not give in to sleep.

The Roadhouse reunion had been relatively uneventful, everyone playing the same 'deny anything uncomfortable ever happened' card. No, there certainly were no warm fuzzies put out there, but they didn't hesitate a bit in helping them, and that meant something.

Ash was called in to search for any sort of leads on break-ins at morgues, or suspicious people or occurrences around the time of their father's 'death'. And Ellen had given them her extra room, free of charge, with the impossible to refuse order of, "Get some sleep." And Jo…well, Jo didn't shove a rifle barrel into his back, and at the moment that had seemed like all he could ask for.

"Dean," Sam whispers through the dark. "You awake?"

"No," he mumbles, rolling on his side so as to face his brother. Sam props himself up on his elbow, making his features just visible as his face catches the light of the waning moon through the window.

"There's something about all this that's bothering me," he says a little louder.

"Would that be something about having a vision where Dad's alive and well and killing random people? Or something about coming here to work it all out and being put up by the woman who, for pretty good reason, hates Dad? Or would it be something about these sheets? Because I gotta tell ya, I know their better quality, but I think after years of low thread counts in cheap motels, my skin just doesn't know what to do with these. Itchy."

Sam says nothing for a moment, just stares at him in that 'you're an idiot' way of his. And Dean knows it to, can sense it even without being able to clearly see the expression on his face.

"No," finally comes out in an irritated growl. "I meant about the vision in general. Something's bugging me."

"What?" he asks, rolling over onto his back once more.

"They're always about the demon, these dreams, visions. They're always somehow related to the demon."

"Yeah," he mutters, trying to hide the interest in his voice.

"So how is this…I mean…how is dad…"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this time it's different. Or maybe it's related just because dad knows the demon, you know, pissed him off or whatever." He can hear the rustle of sheets to his right, knows Sam is moving and shifting uncomfortably. It's what he does when he thinks too hard, too much. "Don't worry about it," he says, hoping that just once his little brother will take his advice. "You should get some sleep."

And for a moment he thinks he might. But then he hears the blankets fly and the room becomes drowned in light as the lamp's flicked on. "The guy," Sam says in a strangled sort of voice.

Dean sits up and squints against the light. "What guy?"

"The other one in the vision, the one dad…" he shakes his head briefly, falling into silence.

"What about him?"

"I…I don't know," he says, head still shaking.

"Sam?"

He stops and looks up at his brother through the garish light, recognizes that all too common worried look of his. "When I _saw_ Max, and that baby back in Iowa…I mean just _seeing _ them…I don't know, I felt some kind of…connection."

"Okay," Dean offers, eyes narrowing as he waits for Sam to continue.

"This guy…I guess I was probably distracted by the fact that I was seeing dad there too, maybe that's why I didn't even think of it until now. But, Dean, I felt it with him too, that weird…"

"Connection," Dean finishes, locking blurry eyes with his brother.

And they both fall into silence.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: It's short. But it's here.

* * *

"Nothing," he says, leaning back heavily into the chair.

Sam and Dean exchange a quick glance before turning back to the man. "What do you mean 'nothing'?"

Ash simply shrugs. "Nobody saw nothing, reported nothing, noted nothing. Nothing."

"That's not possible," Sam says, shaking his head. "Somebody must have seen _something_. Bodies don't just disappear, or get switched, with no one there to see."

"Sure they do. I saw this movie once…Lifetime, I think…and these kids were switched. At birth, not, you know, death. And nobody saw nothing."

Dean scoffs. "Sure are fond of your double negatives there aren't ya, genius?"

"Matter of fact, I am," he responds with a flip of his hair.

"Okay, okay," Sam begins, obviously unsure of where he's headed. "Then…what? It's a dead end?"

"No pun intended," Ash snickers. And both the brothers toss him a glare. The three then sit in thick silence, staring at one another.

They sit and stare even while hearing Jo approach. Even as she begins to speak. Their locked eyes only unmesh after fully processing her words. "So someone put a whammy on the hospital staff before turning your dad into a zombie."

Casual, but crass, her words ached of passive aggression. But Dean didn't care about that, didn't really care about Jo or her petulant antics. It was just what she said, that one word. _Zombie._ That one word that had not occurred to him before. Because it carried too much weight, meant something too horrible to be possible. "Don't call him that," he growls, causing the smirk to fall from her face.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean…" And for a moment Dean's the one who's sorry, thinking he overreacted. But then she sits down across from him, takes on a serious expression and says, "It is a possibility though. He was dead. So if he's out there now, doing whatever it is that he's doing, then there are only two ways that's possible. Either he's somehow, miraculously alive. Again. Or he's…undead."

And there it is. The truth. From the mouths of babes, as they say.

"She's right," Sam says. But Dean doesn't so much as flash him a glance. He's too busy watching Jo. Watching her lean over the table and peruse what few possible leads they'd written down. Watching her forehead crinkle, brow wrinkle, in concentration. Watching her play make believe with the big boys.

"It's none of her fucking business," he spits out, knowing as soon as he does that it's farther than he wants to go.

Jo blanches briefly, taking his words like a slap to the face, before recovering enough to set her mouth in an angry grimace and say, "I was only trying to help."

"We know," Sam starts in that same old conciliatory way of his. But Dean quickly interrupts.

"We don't need your help. We didn't come here for your help."

She rises from her chair and color blotches her cheeks. "Then what the hell did you come here for?!"

"Not this," he says, jaw set, twitching.

"Then what?!" she bellows.

"What the hell is going on?" Ellen yells as she clomps into the room. Her eyes jump from person to person, prying for information in that scary way that only mothers seem to have. That, _tell me now or there'll be hell to pay_, way.

"Nothing," Dean says, avoiding her stare and looking instead just past her, at Jo. "I just don't want Nancy Drew over there bringing her amateur _skills_ to the party."

"Amateur?" She stands upright so as to be seen from behind her mother. "You're the one who said I did good on that last hunt."

"You got yourself caught and almost killed."

"I got the guy, didn't I?"

"No. Sam and I got the guy."

"Using me as bait. You never would have –"

"Enough!" All eyes fall to Ellen as she stands, hands on hips, above them all. "Jo," she says, turning to her daughter, "go make sure we have enough stocked behind the bar for tonight. And you," she says, narrowing her eyes at Dean, "get your shit under control or get out of my home." He responds only with a tight and reluctant nod, watching from the corner of his eye as Jo sulks away.

But just sitting in staunch silence isn't necessarily indicative of control. Inside he simmers, close, too close, to boiling over. It's a felling he's come to know all too well over the last few months, one he actually feels _wrong_ without. But this is different. Whereas before, even just days ago, he was haunted by the image, the realization, of his father being dead, now he has something else to contend with. The idea that he might actually be _un_dead.

* * *

He knows, could swear, that all of this…stuff used to mean something to him. Salt and brick dust and whatever that black powder she kept in a jar by the sink and lines at the doors and windows was. The pictures and amulets and odd little trinkets that littered her small house, especially the room that had become his. The scent of her, left to linger long after she'd moved far, far out of sight.

But like with most things that fleeting sense of familiarity was all he had.

"John," she'd said to him just hours earlier, when he returned from Macon, "you did a good thing." He sat on her couch and stared blankly down at the hand she used to pat his. "He was a bad boy, that one. You know that?"

He nodded his head, though unsure why.

"And he would only get worse. A great threat. But I don't have to tell you that, do I John?" she uttered, rising from the couch. "After all, you were the one who warned me about the children in the first place." She turned, almost out the door, and looked longingly back at him, muttered under her breath, "Not that you'd know it now, mon petit."

* * *

She had actually packed them sandwiches. She owned a bar, and she had sent them on the road with _sandwiches_. Not beer, or liquor, like they really needed. At a time like this. Nope. Sandwiches.

Dean, for his part, had refused to participate in the conversation that led to this little expedition. The one that took place shortly after Jo was ushered from their earlier brainstorming session. Because his father being some kind of zombie was simply not something to be discussed. It wasn't possible. Just like it wasn't possible that he had died. Wasn't possible he'd somehow overcome that and become magically alive once more. None of it was possible, so he simply sat back and let the others talk crazy all on their own.

They had decided, Sam and Ellen and Ash, and maybe even Jo – he wasn't sure if she came back after he got up and walked off – that every possible 'undead' lead should be investigated. So they, this 'they' being Sam and a still silent, still sulking Dean, were headed to Louisiana, some tiny town near the bayou that for all they knew wasn't even there anymore what with Katrina and all.

They had the name of woman, some sort of Voodoo, Hoodoo priestess or something. It wasn't real clear. It was from their father's journal after all. But Sam had insisted that it could be something. Because apparently, Sammy had no problem at all thinking his dad might have been turned into a zombie.

An actual undead, Voodoo, fucking zombie. Who may or may not be a murderer. A murderer of someone _just like him_.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I still own nothing...well, very little anyway, and nothing Winchestery.

Author's Note: I know, it's short. But at least I got something down, right? At least I'm getting back to it. Right?

* * *

"You have to be kidding," he drawls under his breath, batting away yet another hanging sigil. The porch was covered in them, swaying in the thick wet air like toneless wind chimes.

Sam shoots him a _shut up_ glare before knocking on the door. And they both wait. In silence. No words on their side, no footsteps on the other. "Maybe she's not home."

"Break in?" Dean suggests, his face briefly lighting up.

"No," Spoilsport Sam says, looking down on him with chiding eyes. "We'll wait."

"For what?" They both jump at the voice from behind, turning quickly, immediately on guard. One hand flies to Dean's chest in _you almost gave me a heart attack _fashion, as he eyes the woman.

She is small and round with plump lips that curve into a deep frown. Skin so dark the whites of her eyes pop, making them appear buggy, unnatural. Her hands rest staunchly on her wide hips, elbows thrust out far enough to make it seems as though she's taking up the whole porch.

No escape.

"Uh," Sam starts, recovering from the startle before plastering that patented bright and gleaming smile on his face. "We were just looking for Mama Danto. Does she still live here?"

"Mama Danto," the woman says, almost a question, and her large lips curl into a sly grin. "No. Mama Danto doesn't live here anymore." Her voice is thick and heavy, words long and curled round the edges, accented.

Dean stares, perusing her firm stance, soft face sending out a stony glare. Directed at his brother. "Who are you?" he asks in a short and warning tone.

She turns to face him, all warmth and welcome flowing into her eyes as her hand extends. "Call me Ana," she says, followed quickly by a quirk of her eyebrows and, "I live here now."

Dean shakes her hand, hesitantly, and throws his gaze around the porch. He lets out a long whistle before landing his eyes back on her and saying, "You sure got a lot of…protection here." His voice sharpens, lids drop just enough to set off a harsh squint. "You scared of something?"

And she breaks into a hardy laugh, huge guffaws wracking her body as she nearly doubles over. Her hand grasps Dean's shoulder, nudges him around, urges him through the unlocked door, crowding Sam in as they go. And still she laughs. Even as they stand in the big dark room, eyes flitting around, taking it all in – the book-lined shelves and dusty old furniture, the jars of powders and herbs, ranging in shapes and colors, the burned away candles set atop nearly every surface.

"Oh, you are funny," she says, breath hitching in between syllables.

"Yeah, well," he starts, but is quickly cut off by her fleshy hand being thrown up in an all too authoritative manner. She motions to the couch and they both sit, plumes of dust jumping from the cushions.

"Now then," she says, taking a seat across from them, dabbing at her moist eyes. "_Who_ are _you_?"

Her smile now is open and deep, inviting even. So Sam says, without hesitation, "My name's Sam. This is my brother, Dean. We're looking for our father."

"Are you now," she asks, taking in Dean's incredulous glare.

"We think…we know, he knew Mama Danto. And we just thought she might…"

"Know where he is?"

Sam nods.

Ana leans back in her chair, makes a soft _tsk tsk_ sound that echoes through the otherwise quiet room. "You," she says, looking at Dean, "should know better." His face drops, but before he can get out the astonished _what_ that plays on his lips, she goes on. "If you know what those symbols mean, what they are, you should know better than to be here."

"We have to find our father," Sam says simply, looking over to silence Dean.

"Mmm hmm," she mutters before rising to her feet. "Well," she continues, arm extended toward the door, a friendly invitation to leave, "as I said, Mama Danto doesn't live here anymore."

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She knew they would be back, knew they had lingered too long after being dismissed, casing the place. There was no way around it. Those boys were on a mission. And if they were anything like their father had been, they would not give up. Not ever.

She sits heavily on the edge of the bed, remembering that time, when John Winchester was tenacious, did his job with a fervor that only wrath could bring out. A time when he truly believed in the shoot first, ask questions later method. When it came to bad things, _evil _things.

A time when he believed in anything at all.

She turns with a sigh, gazes at the shell of a man in front her, and feels a pang of guilt. But really a pang is all there is, because he did this to himself.

A job is a job, and a purpose a purpose. He knew what his was. He knew what he had to do, what needed to be done. And he refused. She had thought him a hunter above all else, but he caved like only a father would.

"John," she says gently, her hand falling to his knee, "I have another task for you."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: I suck...no, no, really I do. For making you wait so long. But the good news is I am now at least quasi on track with this and intend to update soon. But until then, read and enjoy! Oh, yeah, and review too!

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"Here it is," he says excitedly, waving Dean over to get a glimpse of the article he'd found. The name Danto just seemed so familiar to him, didn't know why. He'd spent the last hour scouring the web, and John's journal, to find some reference to it, finally getting lucky at some obscure supernatural website. "Ezili Danto. Loa depiction of the mother. Fearless warrior, devoted to her children," he reads.

"What's a Loa?"

Sam glances behind him as he speaks. "Voodoo spirits. Kind of like saints. Actually, almost every one has a Catholic saint loosely identified with them."

"Fascinating," he deadpans before collapsing onto the hotel bed. "And why does this old chick share the name of some saint? Is that normal, like naming your kid Esther or something?"

"Esther?"

"It's in the Bible."

"She wasn't a saint."

"Whatever," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean."

Sam turns back to the computer, continues scrolling and searching while he says, "It's pretty common for people to become possessed by Loa. Maybe she's somebody else, but was Ezili Danto when Dad talked to her."

"And now she's just plain Ana again."

"Maybe."

Dean begins rubbing his eyes furiously, attempting to break though the deep throb that always comes from too much reading. Probably should have listened back in the ninth grade when he was told he needed glasses. "What else did it say in Dad's journal?" he asks, voice muffled.

"Nothing really. Not much. Just a name and address. And a date."

"February of last year," he recalls out loud. Then, rising from the bed, "Damn stupid secret messages! I feel like I need a limited edition decoder ring to understand anything in there."

"You probably do," Sam says with a lopsided smirk.

"He went missing in October," he begins, pacing slowly. "So what the hell was he doing in February."

"Apparently consulting with voodoo spirits."

"You think Ana would remember anything, I mean if she were possessed?"

"Don't know. Maybe. I know possession by a Loa is different from that of a demon."

"How?" he asks sharply, genuinely interested.

"Well, for one thing, people actually ask for it. It's not considered a bad or scary thing, more like a…communion with nature."

"Voodoo hippies," he ekes out under his breath.

"Hey Dean?" Sam asks after a moment, causing his brother to stop mid-step. "What does voodoo have to do with the demon? I mean, clearly all of this has _some_ kind of connection. But, voodoo?"

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, taps his foot while he tries to think. Admittedly, he doesn't really know too much about it. It tends to occur only in tight knit communities, not much room for outside sources or call for investigations. "It's a religion," he says finally. "Like any other I guess. You know, man's way of categorizing individual beliefs into easy to follow and understand doctrine." Sam stares at him, face splitting with a wry grin. "What?"

"Nothing, man. Just awfully…scholarly. For you."

"Yeah right, Sammy, cause I'm normally such an idiot."

"No, I didn't mean it like that."

"Whatever," he says with a huff. "Point is, there are connections between every religion. Same stuff, good and evil and all that shit. Just goes by different names."

"Very astute," Sam nods.

"What did you call me?"

"What?"

"Never mind," he says moving over to Sam and nudging him out of the way, effectively taking over the computer. He reads on a bit in the same article before pointing to the screen and saying, "See, the Loa are sometimes seen as ancestral spirits, divine personifications, or…what does that say, Sammy?" he asks condescendingly.

Sam reads from the monitor, "Demons," and turns away with a furrowed brow.

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Everyday a little more came back. Another memory so deep seated, so ingrained in his psyche, that he felt it more than thought it. A woman with flowing blond hair, smiling, laughing, sparking something in his heart that felt like _truth_. A dark haired boy who yelled and snarled and picked fights, for reasons he can't recall. Who poked and prodded and pushed until he got a reaction, no matter how negative. The boy just seemed to want a _reaction_ from him.

He remembered fire. On a daily basis, he remembered fire.

But just as quickly as these things flitted into his mind, his heart, so too would they then evaporate into the nothingness his soul had become. And the further they receded into the corners of his mind, the more he feared they'd become lost completely, never to return.

And if he could have experienced gratitude at all, he would have been thankful for that. Thankful for being able to feel anything at all, even if it was fear. Even if it was quick and fleeting and not nearly enough.

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The next one was worse, hitting him full force, pulling him out of a perfectly normal dream – of a threesome with two completely hot girls, more Dean's cup of tea really, but _hey_, his subconscious reminded him, _you are a man_, and Steve Buscemi. Fucking Steve Buscemi, interrupting them and whisking the girls away. Because, according to the little toad of a man, they ought to be with a real sexual being. Jerk.

But before he could go and race after them, give Steve a piece of his mind, his head burst open with a jolt, a familiar and painful explosion. And the dream faded, vision blurred briefly before everything came into that strange sort of focus, a sharp and fine-tuned reality like no other.

And there was Dad again, his face close, near enough to touch. And his eyes dead, large pools of…nothing. "Dad," he heard, in a squeaky voice that seemed so familiar, like one he knew so well, but couldn't quite be discerned over the thrumming in his ears.

"Dad, please," he heard, louder, more clear. Heard and _felt_, charging up his throat, rolling off his tongue.

But all he saw was his father's face, looming close, unmoving even as blood spattered his cheeks, his toneless lips, empty eyes.

And when he woke this time it was not just with a headache, but with a choking, gagging, wet reflexive cough that shot out of him. And the thick metallic taste of his own perceived blood on his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Because the power is out, again, at work (stupid ice), and I was not needed for more than a few hours, I am able to bring to a short though hopefully enjoyable chapter. So...enjoy!

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What are you supposed to do? When you have a vision – and those visions are known to come true – about your supposedly dead father killing you. Slashing your throat. Standing over you while you bleed to death on a filthy motel floor. 

Vomit.

Try to eke out the words, _fine, I'm fine_, when your brother inquires, a worried and worn expression on his face.

Vomit again.

And then get to work.

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Room number 10. Easy to recall, yet she still had to make sure it was written down for him. Because sometimes his memory failed. Sometimes he'd be in the middle of a task, whether it be washing dishes or bleeding a man dry, and he would just plain forget what he was doing. And why.

Luckily the things she asked of him were ones he had some experience with, must have anyway, because so much of it came so naturally to him. Hospital corners on the beds, sheets so tight you could bounce a coin off of them. Just like he had done when he was young, and away from home...somewhere.

And sharpening knives. The steady, grating swish of the blade over the whetstone. So familiar, so comforting, soothing even, that he'd get lost in the task.

The sneaking and spying and following, waiting outside for an opportunity to pounce. Picking the lock, moving stealthily across the typically creaky floor.

Killing.

Washing away the blood.

So much of it was an odd sort of sense memory. The motions and rituals being quick and easy. But the feel of it being…_wrong_. Terribly, terribly wrong.

And never more so than now.

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In a way they were prepared. Though also not. Because nothing could prepare them for seeing the shadow of their father glide along the wall, wide and dark and always with a purpose. Just how they'd remembered it.

For the both of them, it seemed, coming to grips with the fact that their dad was coming to take out Sam was much easier than realizing, and understanding, that he was not only alive, but about to be standing before them.

He had to focus, that's what Dean kept on telling himself. _Just focus. Don't look him in the eye. Don't even look up at his face. Can't handle seeing his face_.

And Sam simply lay there, in bed, in the dark, just as he had been when his father arrived in his vision. He closed his eyes and waited. For John to come. For Dean to save him. Even if it meant the unthinkable.

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She told him to be careful, always careful. These people were not…normal. They could do things. Inhuman things. So he had to always remain on guard. Always.

He creeps through the door, an old lock easily picked, never wondering why the chain wasn't on. Never thinking it might be because he's expected. And he rolls on the balls of his feet, heels never planted, body set for constant motion. Smooth, undetectable motion.

The rhythm of his movement, the reasoning behind it, feels like a part of him. So deeply engrained that the methods course through his blood. But there's something about it, every time, that seems almost unnatural. Like he's thinking about it. Like he's reciting his actions as he goes, putting on a lesson for someone. Teaching every subtle nuance, and going over it and over it until it's all just as deeply engrained in him. In them.

He sees the man lying in bed, moonlight reflecting white off his bare forearm, face almost entirely hidden by a dark mop of hair. And he stops, for the briefest of moments, the all too familiar déjà vu sense taking hold of him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand. And he tries to think, to remember, if there is anything about this situation, or this young man, that is worth remembering.

But before the images are able to flow into his consciousness, if there were any to come at all, he's propelled forward, grasping heedlessly at the air in an attempt to find balance.

If he were able to feel anything at all, aside from the new throbbing pain in his leg where it had just been kicked out from under him, he would have been shocked. But the surprise did not register. Only that bizarre sense memory flowed through him, allowing him to catch himself on the table before hitting the floor. And then twist around quickly, flinging his leg into a solid body.

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He thought he got lucky. The man started to tumble, unceremoniously down, his back to Dean the entire time. So he didn't have to see his face. But damn if he didn't catch himself at the last minute and land a swift hard kick to his gut, spurning him back a good foot.

Now he's hitting him, this strange man whose eyes he refuses to meet, whose sweet, leathery, _dad_ smell fills his nostrils. He's hitting him, over and over, harder and harder, pummeling him as his back slides down the wall. And Dean lets him.

"Dad, no!" he hears Sam shout, in a way that almost makes Dean want to laugh. Because it's pretty obvious this guy's not going to listen him. It's pretty obvious he's not really dad. Not anymore.

"Dean," he says next, a soft plea as he holds on tight, his thick arm wrapped around the intruder's neck. The chokehold Dad taught them so long ago. He struggles to hold on as the man elbows him repeatedly, uncannily hanging on to consciousness.

But Sam's nothing if not determined. He doesn't let go. _Won't _let go.

Dean watches from the floor, the two dark haired men grappling above him. The two men who were, are, everything in his life. He watches, blinking out the blurriness of tear-stained blood, as Sam slowly lowers the finally spent man to the floor.

And then, once the struggle's over, Dean looks into the face of his father.


End file.
